Chapter XXVI. In which the amusing adventure of the puppeteer is continued, with other things that are truly very good

All fell silent, Tyrians and Trojans alike; I mean, all who were watching the puppet show hung on the lips of the expounder of its marvels, when a number of kettledrums and trumpets were heard sounding inside the show, and a great deal of artillery firing, the noise of which passed in a short time, and then the boy raised his voice and said:

“This true story that is here performed for your graces has been drawn to the letter out of the chronicles of France and the ballads of Spain that go about in people’s mouths, and in the mouths of the boys in the streets. It deals with the freedom that Señor Don Gaiferos gave his wife Melisendra, who was held captive in Spain, in the power of the Moors, in the city of Sansueña, for so they called then the city that today is called Zaragoza; and your graces may see there how Don Gaiferos is playing at backgammon, according to what is sung:

“‘Don Gaiferos sits there playing at the tables,
for Melisendra is forgotten now.’

“And that personage who appears there, with a crown on his head and a scepter in his hands, is the Emperor Charlemagne, the putative father of the said Melisendra, who, vexed at seeing his son-in-law’s idleness and neglect, comes out to scold him; and note the vehemence and earnestness with which he scolds him, for it looks just as if he means to give him half a dozen raps with the scepter, and there are even authors who say he gave them to him, and well given too; and after he had told him many things about the danger his honor ran in not seeking his wife’s freedom, they say he said to him:

“‘I have told you enough: see to it.’

“Look too, your graces, how the emperor turns his back and leaves Don Gaiferos in a fury, and you see how he flings the board and the pieces far from him, beside himself with anger, and calls in haste for his arms, and asks his cousin Don Roldán for the loan of his sword Durindana, and how Don Roldán will not lend it to him, offering him his company in the hard enterprise he is undertaking; but the valiant, angry knight will not accept it; instead he says that he alone is enough to bring out his wife, even if she were buried in the deepest center of the earth; and with this he goes in to arm himself, so as to set out at once. Turn your eyes, your graces, to that tower that appears there, which is supposed to be one of the towers of the castle of Zaragoza that they now call the Aljafería; and that lady you see on that balcony in Moorish dress is the peerless Melisendra, who many times would stand there looking out at the road to France and, with her imagination fixed on Paris and on her husband, would console herself in her captivity. Look too at a new thing that is happening now, never seen before perhaps. Don’t you see that Moor who, very quietly and step by step, with his finger to his lips, comes up behind Melisendra? Well, look how he gives her a kiss full on the lips, and the haste she makes to spit, and to wipe them with the white sleeve of her shift, and how she laments and tears her lovely hair for grief, as if it were to blame for the outrage. Look too how that grave Moor who is in those galleries is King Marsilio of Sansueña, who, because he has seen the Moor’s insolence, though he was a kinsman and a great favorite of his, at once ordered him to be seized and given two hundred lashes, being led through the customary streets of the city, with criers going before / and the rods coming behind; and here you see them coming out to carry out the sentence, when the offense has scarcely been carried out at all; for among Moors there is no ‘notice to the other party’ nor ‘remanded for proof,’ as there is among us.”

“Boy, boy,” said Don Quixote in a loud voice at this point, “go on with your story in a straight line, and do not wander into curves or side paths; for to bring a truth out clean, there is need of many proofs and counterproofs.”

Master Pedro also said from inside:

“Boy, don’t go in for flourishes, but do what that gentleman bids you, which will be the wisest course; keep to your plainsong and don’t go into counterpoint, for it’s apt to snap from being spun too fine.”

“I’ll do so,” answered the boy, and went on, saying: “This figure that appears here on horseback, wrapped in a Gascon cloak, is that of Don Gaiferos himself, to whom his wife, now avenged for the enamored Moor’s boldness, has come out with a better and calmer countenance to the lookouts of the tower, and she speaks with her husband, thinking he is some traveler, with whom she held all that talk and colloquy of the ballad that says: ‘Sir knight, if you to France are riding, / ask there for Gaiferos;’ which I do not repeat now, because from long-windedness weariness is apt to be bred; it is enough to see how Don Gaiferos reveals himself, and that by the joyful gestures Melisendra makes we are given to understand that she has recognized him, and all the more now that we see her letting herself down from the balcony to get on the crupper of her good husband’s horse. But, ah, unlucky lady! The edge of her petticoat has caught on one of the irons of the balcony, and she is hanging in the air without being able to reach the ground. But you see how merciful heaven comes to the rescue in the greatest need, for Don Gaiferos comes up and, without minding whether the rich petticoat will tear or not, takes hold of her and, in spite of it, brings her down to the ground, and then with one heave sets her on the crupper of his horse, astride like a man, and bids her hold on tight and put her arms around his back so that they cross on his chest, lest she should fall, because the lady Melisendra was not used to such ways of riding. You see too how the horse’s neighing gives signs that he is pleased with the valiant and beautiful burden he carries in his master and his mistress. You see how they turn their backs and ride out of the city, and glad and rejoicing set off on the Paris road. Go in peace, O pair without a peer of true lovers! May you come safe and sound to the homeland you long for, without fortune putting any hindrance in the way of your happy journey! May the eyes of your friends and kinsfolk see you enjoy in tranquil peace the days of life that remain to you, and may they be as Nestor’s!”

Here Master Pedro raised his voice again and said:

“Plainness, boy; don’t climb so high, for all affectation is bad.”

The interpreter answered nothing; instead he went on, saying:

“There were not lacking some idle eyes, the kind that are apt to see everything, which saw Melisendra come down and get up, and they gave word of it to King Marsilio, who at once ordered the alarm to be sounded; and look with what haste, for already the city is sinking under the sound of the bells that ring in all the towers of the mosques.”

“Not that!” said Don Quixote at this point. “In this matter of the bells Master Pedro is very much out of order, because among Moors bells are not used, but kettledrums and a kind of flageolet that looks like our shawms; and this ringing of bells in Sansueña is without doubt a great piece of nonsense.”

Hearing this, Master Pedro stopped the ringing and said:

“Don’t look into trifles, your grace, Señor Don Quixote, or try to follow things so far to the end that the end can’t be found. Aren’t a thousand plays performed around here almost every day, full of a thousand improprieties and absurdities, and for all that they run their course most happily and are listened to not only with applause but with admiration and all? Go on, boy, and let them talk; for so long as I fill my bag, he may perform more improprieties than there are motes in the sun.”

“That is the truth,” replied Don Quixote.

And the boy said:

“Look how many and how splendid are the horsemen who ride out of the city in pursuit of the two Catholic lovers, how many trumpets sound, how many flageolets play, and how many kettledrums and drums boom. I fear they will catch them and drag them back bound to their own horse’s tail, which would be a horrible spectacle.”

Seeing and hearing, then, such a host of Moors and such a din, Don Quixote thought it would be well to give help to those who were fleeing; and, rising to his feet, he said in a loud voice:

“Never will I consent, in my days and in my presence, that foul play be done to so famous a knight and so daring a lover as Don Gaiferos. Halt, you lowborn rabble; follow him not, nor pursue him; else with me ye shall do battle!”

And, no sooner said than done, he unsheathed his sword and with one leap was beside the puppet show, and, with swift and never-seen fury, began to rain blows on the puppet host of Moors, knocking some down, beheading others, maiming this one, destroying that one, and, among many others, he dealt such a downstroke that, if Master Pedro had not ducked, crouched, and huddled down, he would have sliced off his head more easily than if it had been made of marzipan paste. Master Pedro shouted, saying:

“Stop, your grace, Señor Don Quixote, and mind that these you are knocking down, destroying, and killing are not real Moors, but little figures of paste. Look, sinner that I am, you are ruining me and wrecking all my property!”

But not for that did Don Quixote leave off showering slashes, two-handed strokes, cuts, and backhands as thick as rain. In the end, in less time than two Credos take, he brought the whole puppet show to the ground, all its rigging and figures hacked to pieces and smashed to bits: King Marsilio sorely wounded, and the Emperor Charlemagne split in two, crown and head alike. The senate of listeners was thrown into an uproar, the ape fled over the roofs of the inn, the cousin was frightened, the page cowed, and even Sancho Panza himself was in the greatest terror, because, as he swore after the storm had passed, he had never seen his master in such a reckless rage. The general destruction of the puppet show thus done, Don Quixote grew a little calmer and said:

“I wish I had before me at this moment all those who do not believe, nor wish to believe, how much good knights-errant do in the world. Look, had I not been here present, what would have become of the good Don Gaiferos and the beautiful Melisendra? To be sure, by this hour these dogs would have overtaken them and done them some foul wrong. In short, long live knight-errantry above all things that live on earth today!”

“Long may they live, and welcome,” said Master Pedro at this point in a sickly voice, “and let me die, since my luck is so bad that I can say, with King Don Rodrigo:

“‘Yesterday I was lord of Spain…
and today I have not a battlement
that I can say is mine!’

“Not half an hour ago, not even a middling moment ago, I saw myself lord of kings and emperors, my stables and my chests and sacks full of countless horses and innumerable finery, and now I see myself desolate and brought low, poor and a beggar, and above all without my ape, for on my faith, before I get him back into my power my teeth will have to sweat for it; and all through the ill-considered fury of this señor knight, of whom it is said that he protects orphans and rights wrongs and does other charitable works; and with me alone his generous intention has failed, blessed and praised be the heavens, there where their seats are set highest. In short, the Knight of the Sorry Figure was bound to be the one to disfigure my figures.”

Sancho Panza was touched by Master Pedro’s words and said to him:

“Don’t cry, Master Pedro, and don’t lament, for you’re breaking my heart; because I’ll have you know that my master Don Quixote is so Catholic and scrupulous a Christian that if he realizes he has done you any wrong, he’ll know how to pay you for it and will want to pay you and make it good to you with plenty to spare.”

“If Señor Don Quixote would pay me for some part of the handiwork he has undone, I would be content, and his grace would make his conscience safe, because he cannot be saved who keeps what is another’s against its owner’s will and does not restore it.”

“That is so,” said Don Quixote, “but so far I do not know that I have anything of yours, Master Pedro.”

“How not?” answered Master Pedro. “And these remains lying on this hard and barren ground, who scattered and annihilated them but the invincible force of that mighty arm? And whose were their bodies but mine? And with whom did I keep myself but with them?”

“Now I come to believe at last,” said Don Quixote at this point, “what I have believed many other times: that these enchanters who persecute me do nothing but set the figures before my eyes as they really are, and then change and transform them into whatever they like. Really and truly I tell you, sirs who hear me, that everything that has happened here seemed to me to be happening to the letter: that Melisendra was Melisendra, and Don Gaiferos Don Gaiferos, and Marsilio Marsilio, and Charlemagne Charlemagne; and so my anger was roused, and, to fulfill my profession of knight-errant, I wished to give help and favor to those who were fleeing, and with this good purpose I did what you have seen; if it has turned out the other way round, the fault is not mine but that of the wicked ones who persecute me; and for all that, for this mistake of mine, though no malice lay behind it, I wish to condemn myself in costs: let Master Pedro see what he wants for the ruined figures, for I offer to pay it to him at once in good, current Castilian money.”

Master Pedro bowed to him, saying:

“I expected no less of the unheard-of Christian charity of the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha, true succor and shelter of all the needy and destitute vagabonds; and here the señor innkeeper and the great Sancho shall be mediators and assessors, between your grace and me, of what the now ruined figures are worth or might be worth.”

The innkeeper and Sancho said they would do so, and then Master Pedro lifted from the ground King Marsilio of Zaragoza, minus his head, and said:

“Anyone can see that there is no bringing this king back to what he was before; and so it seems to me, saving better judgment, that I should be given for his death, end, and finish four reales and a half.”

“Go on!” said Don Quixote.

“Then for this split from top to bottom,” Master Pedro went on, taking in his hands the cloven Emperor Charlemagne, “it would not be much if I asked five reales and a quarter.”

“It isn’t little,” said Sancho.

“Nor much,” replied the innkeeper. “Let’s split the difference and set it at five reales.”

“Let him be given the full five and a quarter,” said Don Quixote, “for the sum of this notable misfortune does not stand on a quarter more or less; and let Master Pedro finish quickly, for it is getting to be suppertime, and I have certain inklings of hunger.”

“For this figure,” said Master Pedro, “with no nose and one eye missing, which is the beautiful Melisendra’s, I ask, and I am keeping to what is fair, two reales and twelve maravedís.”

“That would be the devil indeed,” said Don Quixote, “if Melisendra and her husband were not by now at least at the border of France; for the horse they were riding seemed to me to fly rather than run; and so there is no need to sell me a cat for a hare, showing me a noseless Melisendra here when the other one, as likely as not, is now taking her ease in France with her husband with her legs stretched out. God help each man with his own, Señor Master Pedro, and let us all walk with a level foot and a sound intention. And go on.”

Master Pedro, seeing that Don Quixote was veering to the left and going back to his first obsession, did not want him to escape him; and so he said to him:

“This can’t be Melisendra, but one of the damsels who waited on her; and so, with sixty maravedís given me for her, I will be content and well paid.”

In this way he went on putting prices on many other smashed figures, which the two arbitrating judges afterward moderated to the satisfaction of the parties, and they came to forty reales and three quarters; and besides this, which Sancho paid out at once, Master Pedro asked two reales for the trouble of catching the ape.

“Give them to him, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “not to catch the mono, the ape, but the mona, a good drunk; and I would give two hundred now as a reward for good news to anyone who could tell me for certain that the lady Doña Melisendra and Señor Don Gaiferos were now in France and among their own people.”

“Nobody could give us that news better than my ape,” said Master Pedro, “but there isn’t a devil who could catch him now; though I imagine that fondness and hunger will force him to come looking for me tonight, and God will bring the day, and we’ll see each other.”

In short, the storm of the puppet show came to an end, and they all supped in peace and good company at Don Quixote’s expense, for he was liberal to the last degree.

Before daybreak the man who was carrying the lances and halberds left, and after day had broken the cousin and the page came to take their leave of Don Quixote: the one to go back to his home, and the other to go on his way, to help him on which Don Quixote gave him a dozen reales. Master Pedro did not want to get into any more back-and-forth with Don Quixote, whom he knew very well, and so he rose before the sun and, gathering up the remains of his puppet show and his ape, he too went off to seek his adventures. The innkeeper, who did not know Don Quixote, was as amazed by his madness as by his liberality. Finally, Sancho paid him very well, by his master’s order, and, taking leave of him, at about eight in the morning they left the inn and set out on their way, where we will let them go; for so it is fitting, to make room for telling other things that pertain to the clarification of this famous history.